


Plans to Make It Big and Conquer

by petersnotkingyet



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tumblr, Anxiety, Cancer, Flirting, Insecurity, M/M, Modern Era, amputee enjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7391899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petersnotkingyet/pseuds/petersnotkingyet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is apathetic, unmotivated, and lonely.  Enjolras is charming, ambitious, and keeping secrets.</p><p>They meet on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Grantaire made his blog about six months before he started following Enjolras. Originally, R had planned to use tumblr exclusively for art, but eventually he’d gotten curious enough to follow Combeferre’s personal blog. Courfeyrac’s came next, and then it was someone called Jehan who mostly posted poetry. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, two of Grantaire’s few offline friends, had been on tumblr longer than R, and they were his in when he finally developed an interest in making friends with some of the people behind the blogs. 

Their circle had several core members, including Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Jehan. Then there was Marius, a fifteen year old who was hopelessly in love with an girl he’d met online. He also knew another blogger, Eponine, in real life. Bahorel didn’t post much, which Grantaire appreciated whenever the others were filling up his dash. Feuilly was eighteen and had dropped out of school to work. He stayed so busy that he wasn’t on tumblr as regularly as the others, but he would usually contribute to conversations on Skype. Joly was a hypochondriac but likable enough. At nineteen, Bossuet was the oldest in the group, and he was Joly’s best friend online and off.

Then there was Enjolras. His blog didn’t have much personal information about him, but Grantaire found out a little about him through the others. He had shitty health, already finished high school, and loved France more than life itself. Everyone just seemed sort of drawn to him, Grantaire included. His blog was full of talk of equality and combatting racism and sexism and systematic injustice. Normally, Grantaire would have been put off by the optimism, but something about Enjolras seemed to exempt him from the standards Grantaire held others to.

They’d known each other for about four months when Grantaire looked down at his phone to see an incoming video call from Enjolras. They usually only talked through text, and neither of them posted selfies, so the two teens had never seen what the other looked like. Grantaire considered not answering it. He wasn’t insecure about how he looked, but he knew that he wasn’t the most attractive. Enjolras didn’t seem petty though, and Grantaire was far too curious about what the other boy looked like. He sprinted to pull on a clean tee shirt and smooth his hair down with his hands before answering.

Grantaire was still trying to decide which angle he looked least-awful from when the call connected. The video showed a boy in a red hoodie with short, curly blond hair and sharp, symmetrical features. He was angelically beautiful, and Grantaire wasn’t surprised in the least.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire said hesitantly. His voice cracked, and he felt his face go red. The blond boy nodded. “You are ridiculously good looking. This is unfair.”

“I got a dog!” Enjolras stated excitedly after laughing at Grantaire comment. His accent was a little unusual, but the words were still understandable. “His name is Mr. President.”

Hearing his name, a large German shepherd appeared at the edge of Grantaire’s screen and began licking at Enjolras’s face. Enjolras must have dropped his phone, because Grantaire suddenly had a view of the ceiling. The only background noise was laughter.

“Sorry,” Enjolras apologized. “He’s a little excited.”

Grantaire laughed too. “You named your dog ‘Mr. President?’” he asked.

Enjolras nodded seriously. “I love being back in France, but a prime minister is no president,” he said. 

“When did you get him?” Grantaire said.

“Today,” Enjolras responded. “It’s my birthday, and my parents surprised me.”

“Happy birthday,” R said automatically. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” Enjolras said as he petted Mr. President with the hand that didn’t hold his phone.

“I’m older,” Grantaire teased. “I turned sixteen five months ago.”

“It’s okay, Grantaire.” Enjolras’s tone was equally teasing, and R found he liked the way his name sounded coming from the younger teen’s lips. “Lots of people are late bloomers. You’ll get there some day.”

“Can you get your license there?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras shook his head.

“France lets you drive with your parents when you’re fifteen, but you have to be eighteen to get a real license,” he said. “Do you have yours?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said. He’d actually failed the test the first time he took it, but Enjolras didn’t need to know that. “No car, though.”

They’d been talking for over an hour when Enjolras’s mom poked her head into his room to ask him something, but she quickly made herself scarce when she saw that he was talking to someone. Her accent was similar to her son’s, but more French.

“My dad works for the U.S. Department of Defense,” Enjolras explained when Grantaire asked about his dialect. “He met my mom in France, and that’s where I was born. We moved to Sweden when I was six, and then to the United States when I was ten. When I was twelve we moved to Italy, and then back to America when I was fourteen, but that time we only stayed for a little over a year.”

“Wow,” Grantaire responded. “I’ve lived in the same house my whole life.”

“That sounds nice,” Enjolras said, and he genuinely seemed to think so.

“Oh, shit,” Grantaire said, glancing up at his clock.

“What?” Enjolras said. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, it’s just a lot later than I thought it was,” Grantaire said.

“The time difference is… six hours?” Enjolras said. Grantaire nodded. “So it’s three in the morning there? Don’t you have school today?”

Grantaire shrugged. He didn’t really care for school. The school board had killed the art program, so now he didn’t really have any classes he enjoyed. He did the bare minimum that he had to and spent the rest of his time with his nose in a sketch book.

“Grantaire, go to bed,” Enjolras ordered. “You’re going to feel terrible tomorrow. If I’d remembered the time difference, I wouldn’t have called.”

“Well, then I wouldn’t have gone to bed at all,” Grantaire said. Enjolras scowled, and the older boy laughed.

“Goodnight, E.”

“Goodnight, heathen.”

That weekend, they all decided they would get their hands on Guardians of the Galaxy and talk online as they watched it. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire at gone to see it in the theater, but none of the others had ever seen it before. It was actually working out pretty well, until the scene where Quill handed over the prosthetic leg to Rocket.

 _“You actually got it?_ ” the raccoon said onscreen. _“I was just kidding about the leg. I just thought it would be funny.”_

Grantaire chuckled and glanced down at his laptop screen to see the other’s responses even though he knew most of it would just be emojis from Courfeyrac.

_Enjolras has disconnected_

_Courfeyrac: E?_

_Combeferre: Courf, how’s he gonna see that? He’s offline._

_Grantaire: Pause the movie. I’ll call him and see what’s up._

Grantaire’s call went to voicemail after just one ring. A few seconds later, he got a text saying to just finish the movie without him. Enjolras wouldn’t respond after that, and eventually the others just went back to the movie. Grantaire watched it too, but he kept thinking about the other boy.

After the movie ended, most of them left the groupchat straight away. They all liked each other, but Enjolras was the glue that stuck them all together. When he wasn’t there, conversation just didn’t seem to flow the same way. An hour later, a message from Enjolras appeared.

_Enjolras: Sorry for disappearing during GOTG. I had my right leg amputated when I was ten. I’m used to it, so stuff usually doesn’t bother me, but the movie just made me mad._

Several of the others had already responded, and Grantaire echoed their sentiments. The joke from the movie didn't seem as funny anymore, and the fact that he'd laughed made him feel a little sick. No one wanted to make a big deal of it, so conversation quickly moved on. None of them really enjoyed Guardians of the Galaxy after that. Enjolras actually seemed sort of happy that he could be a little more open with them now.

The next time it came up was three weeks later when Enjolras and R were video chatting. Grantaire said something about some asshole he’d encountered on the bus, and Enjolras immediately started laughing. It was fairly obvious that he was thinking of something funnier than the man who’d tried to tell R he couldn’t have a canvas on the bus.

“Oh, man,” Enjolras said. “I’ve got a story. Like a month or so ago, I was coming home by myself on the metro. I’d been on my feet for a while, which gets kind of hard on me and the regular seating had filled up, so I sat in the disability seating. Then this thirty-something year old guy gets on, so this was a grown man, and he comes over to me and starts talking about his weak ankles and hypertension. By the time I realize he actually expects me to move, he’s calling me an entitled brat and trying to drag me out of the seat.”

“Wait,” Grantaire interrupted. “This dude expected you to stand so he and his “weak ankles” could sit?”

Enjolras nodded. “I had on jeans, so he couldn’t see the leg, but you shouldn’t assume someone is able-bodied just because they look normal. It takes 80% more energy to walk with an AK prosthetic than two whole legs, and winter makes me ache. So when I need to sit, I need to sit.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said. “So what’d you do about the dude?”

“Took off my leg and hit him with it,” Enjolras said with a shrug. Grantaire burst into laughter immediately, and it took at least a minute for him to calm down enough to continue the conversation.

“You’re too much, Apollo,” Grantaire said once he’d caught his breath.

“Apollo?” Enjolras said, raising an eyebrow. “Are you a Percy Jackson fan or something?”

“No, actually, yeah, but that’s not what I was referencing,” he said.

“That was a trick question,” Enjolras said. “I already knew you were a PJO fan. I saw that piece you did on tumblr.”

“I haven’t drawn Percy Jackson since freshman year,” Grantaire said. Enjolras shrugged, unabashed. It was like he didn’t know how to be embarrassed.

“I was creeping,” he said. “I had to know what I was committing to when I followed you.”

“Like what you saw?”

Enjolras smiled. “Definitely.”


	2. Chapter 2

Within the first three minutes of their conversation, Grantaire had already determined that Enjolras sounded like shit.  He was hoarse, and his coughs made Grantaire wince.

“Do you want to talk later?” Grantaire offered.  “You sound like you need water or something.”

Enjolras made a dismissive noise, just like Grantaire had figured he would.  He hadn’t known Enjolras long, but he’d already figured out that the boy had more than his fair share of pride. 

“I’ll be fine,” Enjolras said.  “I already went to the doctor.  I’ve got medicine for it.”

There was the crappy health Combeferre and Courfeyrac had eluded to.  Enjolras was constantly plagued with chest infections, earaches, stomach bugs, and unexplained fevers.  For the most part, Enjolras seemed to be able to power through them, but it made Grantaire rub his own chest in sympathy when he heard the crackle in Enjolras’s cough.

“What do you have?” Grantaire asked.  “Bronchitis?”

“Walking pneumonia,” Enjolras said.  “It’s fine.  How was your math test?”

“Okay, I guess,” Grantaire said.  “I won’t really know until we get them back, but I think I did good.  I watched those videos you sent me.  They helped.”

“Good,” Enjolras said, pleased.  “You know, Combeferre wouldn’t mind helping if you asked him.  He’s really good with math.”

Grantaire pulled a face, glad that Enjolras couldn’t see him.  Usually, they used FaceTime or Skype, but Enjolras hadn’t wanted to because he was sick.  He said he was still in his pajamas and “gross,” but Grantaire had no doubt that Enjolras still looked better than him.  He left him get away with it anyway.

“Don’t be like that,” Enjolras said.  “He wouldn’t mind.  He’s a good guy, and it’s easier to learn from a real person than from a video or an article.”

“Homeschoolers would disagree,” Grantaire said.  He could practically see Enjolras pursing his lips.  He was quickly finding that arguing with Max Enjolras was one of life’s greatest pleasures.

“I’ve been in school, and I’ve been homeschooled,” Enjolras said.  “In my experience, a real person gives much better answers if you’re struggling.”  His tone relaxed a little.  “But it’s doable.  I can send you more stuff if you don’t want to ask anyone.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire said.

“It’s no problem,” Enjolras.  Grantaire could hear a door open on the other side of the line.  There was the faint sound of a woman speaking.  “I’ve got to go.”

“Okay,” Grantaire said.  “Goodbye.”

“Bye, R.”

Grantaire didn’t message Enjolras until the next morning.  It took several hours for him to get a response, and even then something about it was lackluster.  Grantaire didn’t think anything of it until there was no response at all the next day.  On the second day without contact, he got his math test back.  In the teacher’s looping red script, the top right corner read:

_87\.  Incredible improvement, Ryan!_

There was a smiley face below it.  Grantaire had never cared about math class, never thought of it as something that was important to him.  It was something he had to do, not something he was good at or enjoyed, but an 87 was the best grade he’d made all semester.  Without thinking about it, he messaged Enjolras with more exclamation points than he’d used in a month.

No response.

Grantaire checked the time and ran the conversion in his head as he walked from math to English class.  It was nearly twelve for him, which made it six for Enjolras.  Grantaire’s school day ended without a response, and it was impossible to ignore the embarrassment that had been creeping up his throat all day.

Enjolras was a genius.  He was sixteen and done with high school.  He was attractive and opinionated and well-traveled.  Grantaire was just a lonely kid from Nebraska who had sent seven unread messages in the past two days.  The shame of getting his hopes up burned in his throat.

That evening, Grantaire skipped his homework and finished a piece he’d been working on for a few days.  The coloring was harsher than his usual style, but it didn’t look half bad.  He posted it without bothering with a caption or tags.  When he checked the time on his phone, it was nearly midnight.

To his surprise, Grantaire found himself yawning now that his tunnel vision on the piece had faded.  He’d only been talking to Enjolras regularly for a month or two, but the younger boy had already managed to guilt trip him into making changes to his sleeping schedule.  Enjolras himself slept for nearly ten hours a day, and he insisted on the importance of Grantaire aiming for at least eight.

Grantaire woke up the next morning to a text from Combeferre.

_Combeferre: Have you heard from E lately?_

Grantaire pecked out a negative response as he hurried to get ready.  He’d slept through his alarm.  After years of staying up to the small hours, two weeks of eight hours a night had stripped him of his ability to function on less.  He didn’t check his phone again until he was in his first class.

_Combeferre: I’m going to try to get in touch with his mom.  I haven’t heard from him since Tuesday and everything from his blog is queued._

Grantaire forgot sometimes that Combeferre had actually met Enjolras.  During his sophomore year, Combeferre had spent a semester in Paris living.  The family he stayed with had a son named Hugo.  Combeferre hadn’t gotten along with him, but he had gotten along with Hugo’s cousin Max.

Combeferre had spent hours with Enjolras and his family.  He was on a first name basis with Enjolras’s parents, and he had met all of Enjolras’s friends.  It was the pictures that Grantaire was most jealous of, though.  Combeferre’s phone contained selfies taken sitting on Enjolras’s kitchen counter, tourist-y photos from days sightseeing, goofy pictures from parks and museums.  It’d be enough to drive Grantaire crazy if he thought about it too long.

When Grantaire saw Combeferre at lunch, he still hadn’t heard back from Enjolras’s mom, but promised to text as soon as he did.  He hadn’t worried either when Enjolras went quiet, but he did when Courfeyrac pointed out that everything on his blog had come from his queue.  In his final class of the day, Grantaire finally got a text from Combeferre.

_Combeferre: Heard back from Helen.  E’s walking pneumonia turned into regular pneumonia.  He’ll be in the hospital for at least a few more days._

“I’ll take that, Mr. Grantaire.”

Grantaire’s head jerked up.  His phone was still glowing in his hand, and everyone around him was staring. 

“Mr. Clark, I-“

“Don’t push your luck, Ryan,” Mr. Clark said.  “You know the rules.  You should consider yourself lucky that I’m not writing you up.”

“But-“

“I still can if you’d prefer,” Mr. Clark said.  Someone behind him—a girl—giggled.  Grantaire felt his cheeks go red.  He handed his phone over.  “You can collect this tomorrow morning.”

Grantaire bit down on the inside of his lip as Mr. Clark locked his phone in the desk drawer.  His classmates lost interest in him quickly, and Mr. Clark resumed the lesson.  Grantaire didn’t have any attention left, but he slouched down in his chair and fixed his eyes on the board.  He forced himself not to bounce his leg or fidget his hands.  He already knew he wouldn’t be able to get his phone back a second before Mr. Clark wanted him to have it.  It’d stay locked in the desk for the next fifteen hours.

Shit.


	3. Chapter 3

“Can I have my phone?”

Mr. Clark blinked slowly, surprised.  “Mr. Grantaire,” he greeted as he unlocked the door.  “It’s seven AM.  How long have you been waiting?”

Grantaire shrugged.  He’d gotten up an hour early, rushed through his morning routine, and walked to school before the bus was anywhere near his street.  He’d been sitting outside Mr. Clark’s room since the custodian unlocked the school, doodling anxiously and glancing up for his math teacher every time he heard a noise.

“I need my phone,” Grantaire said insistently.  Combeferre and Courfeyrac both had a test in AP chemistry today, and he’d been unable to rouse either of them on tumblr last night.

“Are you really so addicted to it that you couldn’t wait until 7:30?” Mr. Clark said.  Grantaire didn’t respond, so the teacher unlocked his desk, dug out Grantaire’s phone, and handed it over.  Clearly, Mr. Clark was expecting Grantaire to flee as soon as he’d gotten his cell phone, but the teenager dropped into a desk and began sorting through his text messages.  “Mr. Grantaire, is everything alright?”

Grantaire’s face flushed.  “My friend is in the hospital,” he mumbled.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Clark said, frowning.  “I hadn’t heard about any students being in the hospital.”

“He’s not from here.  I met him online,” Grantaire said.  “I didn’t even know he was that sick until yesterday.”

“What’s your friend’s name, Mr. Grantaire?”

“Max,” Grantaire answered.  He’d expected Mr. Clark to lecture him about cell phones and the dangers of talking to people online, but the math teacher just nodded.

“I’ll pray for him,” Mr. Clark said.  “Have a good day, Mr. Grantaire.”

Grantaire had five text messages.  The first three were from Combeferre, all regarding Enjolras.  In his AP fueled haze, he’d managed to maintain contact with Helen and relay the information to Grantaire, but he’d been too distracted to realize Grantaire wasn’t responding.  From what he’d said, Enjolras wasn’t doing well, but he wasn’t getting any worse.  The fourth text message was from Grantaire’s mother, asking him to do the dishes when he got home.  That explained why she had been so irritated with him.  The final text was from Enjolras’s number, sent early that morning.

_Hello, Ryan.  This is Max’s mom.  Combeferre told me that you were worried about him, and I just wanted to let you know how he was doing.  He’s been very sick for several days, but they put him on a new antibiotic last night that they think might work better.  I will try to let you know if something changes, but Max may realize I’m using his phone.  I would appreciate it if you could pass this on to anyone else Max is close to._

Grantaire read the paragraph three times before he screenshotted it and sent it in the group message with the others.  Enjolras—the prideful dick—would probably be annoyed when he was better and saw everyone had been talking about him, but Grantaire didn’t have it in him to send the message out one by one.  Most of the others responded quickly, an even mix of expletives and well-wishes for Enjolras.  They seemed altogether too calm.  Grantaire felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest.

“There you are.”

It was Combeferre.  He was standing in the doorway with his backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder.  He looked tired.  More time must have passed that Grantaire had realized, because there were more students in the hallway.  Combeferre called up the hallway, and Courfeyrac appeared beside him.

“You have a chemistry test,” Grantaire said, frowning.

“Not until second period,” Courfeyrac said.  He smiled a little, but he looked just as tired as Combeferre.

“Did you eat breakfast this morning?” Combeferre asked.  When Grantaire shook his head, he said, “Alright, come on.  Let’s go get you something.”

The cafeteria was serving breakfast for another ten minutes, but Grantaire didn’t have any money.  Without comment, Combeferre bought him a tray of milk, cereal, sausage, and an orange.  The three boys sat down at an empty table, and Grantaire started to eat mechanically.

“We’re going to be late,” Grantaire said once he’d finished the cereal.  He hadn’t realized he was actually hungry.

“We knew we would be,” Courfeyrac said. “We already told our first period teacher and yours.”

“Told them what?”

Courfeyrac shrugged.  “That our friend is in the hospital and you’re a little freaked out,” he said.  “They both said they wouldn’t mark us tardy.”

Grantaire looked up from his food dubiously.  “Ms. Evans agreed to that?”

“Believe it or not, R, your teachers don’t actually hate you,” Combeferre said.

Grantaire finished eating, but none of the boys stood up.  Combeferre was fiddling with his hands pointedly, and Grantaire could see the words forming in his mind.  He leaned on the table and waited for Combeferre to speak.

“Enjolras is going to be okay,” Combeferre said.  “He gets sick a lot, but he’s always been fine.  It’s… scary, but he’s tougher than he looks.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Grantaire asked.  Combeferre opened his mouth, closed it, and then shook his head.  “It just kinda… freaked me out that he was so sick, and we didn’t even know.”

“Yeah,” Combeferre agreed.  “I should have texted Helen earlier.  I knew he’d been sick, but it didn’t seem that bad the last time I talked to him.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Courfeyrac interjected.  “And Enjolras’s parents were just to stressed out to remember to get in touch with his friends.  It’s nobody’s fault.”

“You’re right,” Combeferre agreed, smiling softly at Courfeyrac.  “But the point is that everything’s going to be fine.  Enjolras is going to get better and get mad at us for making a fuss.”

“Sounds about right,” Grantaire said.  One of the lunch ladies looked at them and gestured at the clock.

  “R, are you okay to go to class?” Combeferre said.  “I don’t mind driving you home if you need to go.”

“I’m okay,” Grantaire said.  “I should probably try to continue the thing with my teachers not hating me.”

“Alright,” Combeferre said.  Grantaire went to put away his tray, and the other two walked with him.  “If you change your mind, just text one of us and we’ll take you home.”

“I believe that would be against the rules, C,” Grantaire jested.

“Fuck the rules,” Courfeyrac laughed.

Grantaire slipped quietly back into Mrs. Evans’s class.  She glanced at him for a second, but she didn’t say anything as he took his seat and rifled through his backpack for the appropriate binder.  The school day went by slowly, but all of Grantaire’s teachers left him alone.  If they saw him glancing at his phone when he wasn’t supposed to have it, they didn’t say anything.  Grantaire made it home with very little homework and his cell phone.

At 9:17 that night, Combeferre forwarded a message from Helen Enjolras to the groupchat.  It was three words only:

_Max’s fever broke._


End file.
